


Requisite Pitstop

by darkwood



Series: You. Impossible you. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Kidnapping, Werewolf Sherlock, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwood/pseuds/darkwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We'll stop in Dresden to have the subcutaneous trackers removed," Mycroft said, disdain seeping into his tone. "You'll forgive the delay, I hope, but I'd rather be clear of the Eastern Bloc before I subject either of you to another medical procedure."</p><p>Inspired by and based on <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash">Jupiter_Ash</a>'s <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/496440">"Man and Beast"</a>. You should read that work first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jupiter_Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Man and Beast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/496440) by [Jupiter_Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash). 



> I wasn't going to do this, I certainly wasn't going to post it once I did it, and I may delete it later. But for the intervening time, I hope you'll enjoy this.
> 
> I will state right now that I'm far better at the John headspace in this story than I am the Sherlock. 
> 
> Also, this has not been beta-ed, and I have been putting it down as a mental relaxation in between novel and script writing. 
> 
> I am not a Brit, and so any and all slang I have picked up on the telly.

~*~

 

John.

  
No. John _Watson_.

His mate was beside him. His strong, wonderful, interesting, endlessly surprising mate. Sherlock wondered just how it was that whoever had captured him had managed to lay hands on someone like _John._

John Watson had seemed enough of a competent soldier - certainly their escape proved that much! - and was strong, strong enough that he was who the wolf had chosen, the one Sherlock had likewise accepted. If Sherlock had paid more attention to Mycroft - an idea so unlikely as to be dismissed outright - he would surely have pieced together the details he had noticed further. A soldier might be injured in a similar way, but how likely was it that-

There was certainly a question he would have to ask John, included in the entire 'later' that he had been forced to wait for. How exactly had whoever it was managed to capture John?

His John, who was currently asleep, sagged against his side trustingly. The flight was a smooth one, with only Mycroft's frown as turbulence. In slumber, John had slipped down a little.  At once Sherlock wanted to bury his nose in John's neck and to force him down and demand answers. To quell the urge, Sherlock shifted against the seat, turning his face away from the scent of his lovely, infuriating John.  

  
"We'll stop in Dresden to have the subcutaneous trackers removed," Mycroft said, disdain seeping into his tone. "You'll forgive the delay, I hope, but I'd rather be clear of the Eastern Bloc before I subject either of you to another medical procedure."

Shifting to put his nose into John's hair, Sherlock glanced at his brother. "Even you haven't forgotten that Dresden was part of East Germany."  
  
"Even you must admit it was rather sloppy," Mycroft added, ignoring Sherlock's snide comment.

It only served to annoy Sherlock, a sensation fueled by being reminded of how everything had gone so spectacularly to shit. He bit back the snarl that threatened, unwilling to disturb John, and settled for snapping, "As vexing as I am certain my lack of foresight for the well-equipped, well-informed-"

"None of this would have happened at all if you would just be more reasonable, Sherlock."

"I suppose I would make your life easier if you could convince me to heel like-"

"I had hoped we could dispense with the worst of the venom until we were home," Mycroft said, taking a paper from the compartment beside his seat. "I have rather just rescued you from a questionable end."

"You were saving yourself," Sherlock grumbled.

The paper rustled sharply, and Mycroft's eyes were sharp as he glared at his brother. Sherlock met Mycroft's gaze for a moment before he felt the shame of what he had said, and lowered his eyes. He curled closer to John absentmindedly, seeking comfort.

The moment passed, and both wolves calmed themselves in their separate fashions.

Eventually Mycroft spoke again. "Though I do not gainsay your choice of mate, your timing is atrocious."

It was Sherlock's turn to glare, but Mycroft had both hands lifted in surrender.

John shifted against Sherlock, stretching with a soft groan. Instantly Sherlock's attention was on his mate. They had been separated during their escape, and with all the layers between them it was hard to discern if John had been injured.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, as a point of order, Mycroft is wrong. Dresden, Germany fell within Eastern Germany, and thus would have been a part of the Eastern Bloc. 
> 
> Unfortunately for my geographical accuracy, my history classes did not actually cover the Cold War. (I wish I was lying, but I've got a master's degree and nope, never broke 1776 in American history, and I had to quit the Russian history class almost as soon as Rasputin did away with the Romanovs.)
> 
> It still sounds better than the alternative. Originally I had written that they were stopping in Kiev, Ukraine, but... well. Couldn't go there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quite literally quote [Jupiter_Ash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash)'s ["Man and Beast"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/496440) in this chapter. 
> 
> If you haven't read that story, you will understand much more of what this is based on by reading that one. I highly recommend it.

~*~

 

Sensing scrutiny, John shook his head. Low, familiar tones drew him out of sleep, accompanied by less recognizable ones. Despite the comforting warmth of the down jacket against the usual chill of the canned, recycled air in an aircraft, a tension had developed in him. It wasn't helped by the strange presence of Sherlock's immaculate and apparent mastermind of a brother, and it certainly wasn't helped by the armrest between John and Sherlock. Forcing a calm through himself to ease off the feeling, John popped his back and rolled his shoulder. He turned his face into Sherlock's neck, seeking and finding the comforting smell of his mate, and mumbled, "Nothing bad."

For a timeless moment, John was surrounded by warmth and the scent of Sherlock. He was weightless, and he was safe.

An unfamiliar chuckle shattered the feeling, and John blinked both eyes open.

Safety was only ever relative, afterall.

Close, warm Sherlock seemed to have joined forces with the adrenaline crash and the combined might had knocked John asleep. In the wake of his lulled senses, John was disoriented. He struggled for a moment to place the events of the last few hours and sort out where it was that he - no, they were.

The plane, of course.

Across from the two of them the ginger-haired wolf - Mycroft, John remembered - smiled faintly.

Sherlock's arm tightened around his shoulders fractionally.

"Don't let me interrupt the sibling rivalry," John said, fighting a yawn. Given the looks on their faces, John doubted he even could. It was ridiculouss that he was tired, they had done nothing but sleep for weeks. Well, sleep and have sex, but despite how athletic Sherlock could make that, it still wasn't the same as full body physical exertion. The closest they had come to that was the treadmill test, and Sherlock had taken the lion's share of that on himself.

"There's a private medical facility in Dresden where your implants will be removed."

This, then, was the brother. Cool, collected and calculating. John's brain seemed to have found an awful lot of C words to describe Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft seemed to be watching John closely, and that wasn't exactly a comfortable sensation.

John was reasonably certain that anyone else would feel intimidated by the wolf, not because of his confidence, but because of the unsettling quiet that finished off his polished facade. John ignored the itching sensation he got at being scrutinized and focused his thoughts on the present topic.

John's whole body tensed at the thought of _another_ doctor.

"Hope it's a good surgeon," John said, shaking his head. It was strange to think of someone else cutting into him again. After the last surgery-

The memory slammed into him with the force of a car speeding into a brick wall. It was always a rough one to deal with, fresh enough that recalling it brought with it a rush of pain that jolted through his arm. Logically, John knew the pain wasn't real in that moment. He was leaning against Sherlock and nothing about the relaxed angle was likely to tweak the nerve damage that had been done, but he still felt it like a rush of fire burning into his bones.

"I'm here," Sherlock said, voice so low it was almost inaudible. He didn't repeat the assurance, but the warm arm around his shoulders tightened, and warm breath puffed against his ear.

Despite the strength of the memory, the phantom pain that managed to overcome his reason, and everything telling him otherwise, John relaxed into Sherlock's grip. Just the sensation of Sherlock close, the nose against his temple, relaxed John. _My mate_ , he reminded himself, sighing as the strong arm squeezed him for a moment. He closed his eyes and let his head fall against Sherlock's neck.

They neither of them had cleaned up since the escape... since before the escape. Sherlock smelled very strongly of himself - with an understandable amount of dried sweat and the antiseptic that had been used on his hand when he changed back - and John felt himself stirring in reaction to it. He shifted closer to Sherlock, tipping his nose against his mate's neck to-

"Timing," Mycroft said primly, lifting his newspaper again.

That was mildly chastising. John was so used to being watched all the time he was with Sherlock that he hadn't even hesitated to turn to his mate like that with Mycroft sitting less than three feet from him. John had never been a particularly shy lover, but he'd never been this much of an exhibitionist before either.

Have to work on that impulse, then.

Sherlock huffed, not moving his grip, but didn't encourage John to continue.

To distract himself, John studied Mycroft. The suit the other wolf wore was dark, cleanly pressed despite whatever participation he had in the rescue the night before, and impeccable. It was the sort of suit that John would never buy for himself because of the outrageous price tag. Looking over his - was in-law an appropriate term in this instance? - looking over the wolf, John thought of what Sherlock had told the people that held them. He thought of what he could remember his mate almost sobbing out as he himself was jolted in punishment for slow answers. The words drifted through his head now. _We look like you, we act like you, we just happen to make sure we’re not in public when there is a full moon. What do you think? We have jobs, we pay bills, we vote in pointless elections._

Mycroft certainly played the part of human very well. Well enough even to fool someone studying a werewolf. John had to push down a chuckle that threatened. Mycroft was the most improbable werewolf of them all, and that was no doubt the most cunning disguise the wolf had thought of. The human Mycroft was a caricature of a human, too prim, too neat, too unruffled to be real. And that made him believable.

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise in his throat  and pointedly turned so that his shoulder was more to Mycroft. He tightened the arm he had around John, pulling him closer before his other hand was unzipping the parka and undoing the front of the stolen shirt he had on.

John reached up to stop him, and Sherlock snarled at him, smacking his hand away and continuing to undress him almost urgently. "Hey!" John protested, reaching up to catch Sherlock's wrist again only to have Sherlock's face shoved into his. Both grey eyes narrowed warningly, and John could see the wolf in this. There was no point in struggling against it. "This really isn't the time for that."

Deft hands pushed his shirt up and examined his torso.

It was... almost clinical, John thought in confusion. Then Sherlock shifted forward, sniffing him, and the confusion intensified in John. "Sher-"

"You weren't hurt, were you?" Sherlock asked, low and serious, speaking with lips against John's sternum. "All this clothing... the antiseptic, things smell muted. Tell me, _are you hurt?"_

This time when John caught Sherlock's wrist it was gentle, because he understood. The whole world had fallen out when he'd seen blood in the snow around Sherlock. And then he'd felt his stomach turn into a knot when he'd seen Sherlock stumble in the snow towards the chopper, covered in blankets.

"Nothing bad," John promised. He guided Sherlock's arm around him, belatedly working the armwrest up from between them, and sagged into the grip as Sherlock pressed into him. The lips against his neck were warm and welcome.

The newspaper rustled again, but Mycroft did not repeat himself.

John barely noticed Mycroft this time, in favor of the warm mate trying to climb into his skin with him. There wasn't enough room on the seats for it, though, so John kissed back in reassurance and didn't give in to his urge to have it off with Sherlock right there in the horribly expensive private plane.

"We really shouldn't dally in Dresden," Mycroft's prim voice interrupted John's attempted resolve. "But a few hours can be arranged."

"You assume that will be enough," Sherlock purred, tugging John's legs up over his to get closer.

"No one's said where it is we're headed," John said, because no one had and though he wasn't currently worried about Mycroft's intentions, his last trip by private jet had been drugged and had only ended well on the technicality that was Sherlock.

"London," Mycroft said as Sherlock growled the same into his ear.

"Oh, well, right."

Sherlock chose that moment to lick his neck, and John surrendered to the feeling of it, sagging in his grip and angling himself for best consumption. Sherlock grinned triumphantly against his neck, and Mycroft rustled his paper in annoyance.

 

*


	3. Chapter 3

~*~

By the time they neared German airspace, John wasn't so willing to be patient. Sherlock had been at his neck, and the course of his inspection had half peeled John out of the parka to get the shirt open enough to be sure of the 'rightness' of John's scent. Once he was satisfied, he'd taken to laving attention on his shoulder. Mycroft had taken out a laptop to avoid them in pointed disapproval, but eventually removed himself to another section of the cabin. It wasn't coincidence that it was just after Sherlock had given up the pretense of just kissing and had taken to palming John through the stolen fatigues. Any reunion between the brothers would have to wait until later, obviously.

"Jesus, I'll never make it off the plane," John moaned as Sherlock squeezed him. By then, John was clutching Sherlock's shoulder with one hand and had the other threaded into his mate's hair.

"Not like this you won't," Sherlock growled in agreement, tugging John's fatigues open to get a hand inside.

John squirmed until between the two of them they got his pants down his hips enough for Sherlock to work him into an almost embarrassingly quick orgasm. Sherlock murmured a soft endearment against his temple, quelling any self-consciousness John might have felt, and nuzzled John's neck before leaning back to lick his own hand clean. John watched, glad to be reclining already because when Sherlock did things like that he went weak-kneed with arousal.

Sherlock's responding erection was nudging against John's leg, even through all the clothes, but when John reached for him, Sherlock caught his wrist and kissed it.

"Sherlock?"

"Mycroft seems to have left us alone," Sherlock said, settling against John's chest and stroking his torso.

"You did all that just to get your brother to leave us alone?" John frowned.

"It was unlikely that you'd be willing to speak freely in front of him, and this is as 'later' as I can contain myself to wait for," Sherlock said, nuzzling John's neck with his nose.

John looked up at the roof of the plane, fighting the urge to be angry that Sherlock had just half-stripped him on a plane and given him a handjob just to get his brother to back off for the sake of a private conversation.

"At least it was a good handjob?" Sherlock murmured against his neck.

The angry feeling gave way to wonder at how Sherlock could almost read his thoughts sometimes. "A bit short," John replied.

"You sleep too much. Even Russia's only so big," Sherlock said. "If I'd had at you properly, we'd be in Dresden before we were finished."

That statement turned John's wonder to amusement, and John chuckled. Sherlock joined him, stroking his side and kissing his neck gently. Once the chuckling had subsided, John figured he'd be better off starting the conversation than letting Sherlock do it. "So you've got questions," he prompted.

"How did they capture you?" Sherlock asked, launching into a series of questions so rapidly that he must have been thinking them for _hours_. "How did you know we were in Russia? Why didn't you tell me we were in Russia? How did you survive the ambush? Wh-"

John cut Sherlock off with a kiss and said, "Any more all at once and I won't be able to remember them all."

Sherlock huffed at that, but settled down, giving John and expectant look.

"I was on a course of antibiotics in a military hospital, so I can't really tell you how I was taken from there, I had a nasty fever at the time. I knew we were in Russia because I was in another facility before they brought me to yours." John took a breath, but hurried on before Sherlock could ask where the facility was or for any other detail that might be nagging at him. "Not every single person they employed was aware of how top secret the operation was. My nurse in Bratsk took a liking to me and practiced her English on me."

Sherlock's arm slid around his middle. John didn't fail to notice the possessiveness of it, but felt reassured by his mate's closeness, especially in the face of the last question Sherlock had fired off.

"It was a plane up to Siberia, so I couldn't say exactly where we were being held," John said. "It was northwest from Bratsk, but my Russian geography is a bit outdated, so it wouldn't have been useful. I didn't tell you we were in Russia because it didn't come up. You didn't ask if I knew anything, and then I figured whatever plan you had to get out was already aware of it."

John fell silent, leaving the last question unanswered. He didn't like to think of that night in Afghanistan, no matter who asked him about it. Facing death like that was not the sort of conversation to have with the living. His entire unit was dead, he'd nearly joined them. "Sherlock, I can't-"

But Sherlock was no longer focused on him. He was looking up in the direction that Mycroft had headed off in.

"We've begun our descent into Dresden," Mycroft said, retaking the seat opposite them. "Your Captain Watson will most likely wish to be covered up in the cold."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock hauled John upright. John put his feet on the floor and set about righting his clothing on his own.

"As refreshing as your possessiveness of your mate is," Mycroft said, lifting his eyes to regard Sherlock, "it's unnecessary."

"I don't think you're really in a position to criticize me on that," Sherlock replied.

When Sherlock made no move to buckle his seat belt, John did it for him. Once they were both strapped in, he leaned his head against the seat and closed his eyes.

"I've arranged a room," Mycroft said, "as it seems the specialist is still en route to the facility."

"How very kind of you," Sherlock replied.

John didn't quite understand Sherlock's antagonism with his brother, but he wasn't about to question it. Harry could be the black devil itself at turns, but she could also be sweeter than pie. No few people assumed the sweet version was the only one to find, and thus failed to understand or even allow John his own, stiff reaction to her upon casual acquaintance. They didn't bother to look any deeper than what they wanted, and over the years John had to listen to a lot of criticism about his 'unkind behavior'.

So John decided to give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt on his sibling relationship.

Plus, for all that he was mated to one, he knew very little about the social behavior of werewolves.

Sherlock took John's hand as the sibling snarking between the two wolves tapered off, and then the plane started to angle down for landing.

*


	4. Chapter 4

~*~

 

John wasn't sure what he'd call Sherlock's behavior was possessive, but as soon as the plane touched down something was different about his mate. At first John attributed it to a change in himself. He felt unsteady on his feet, almost like getting off a ship after a long voyage. Then he couldn't quite explain it, but something was obviously different. Sherlock didn't cling to John the way a human lover might, but the claim was obvious in Sherlock's behavior. The tall wolf kept himself at John's side and when anyone came near he straightened up to his full height. At first John thought it was a fluke of some sort, something to keep the driver of the sleek black car at bay, but then the behavior repeated itself. Sherlock towered over the staff at the hospital, and it was as much his behavior as it was Mycroft's solid presence that seemed to keep voices respectfully lowered as they were escorted to the elevator.

 

John noted, despite the unsteady feeling that seemed to keep hold of him, that there was absolutely no paperwork for him to fill out. He wasn't sure if he ought to be reassured by that or concerned by it.

 

The elevator made its way up to the third floor, and John noticed that Sherlock tracked any stranger with his eyes whenever they crossed their path. And it was _their_ path, because Sherlock was a fixed satellite, moving along just beside him.

 

The vigilance was reassuring to John, though. Even if he wouldn't voice it out loud, in his head he could admit that he wasn't looking forward to another medical facility. The unsteady feeling got worse as soon as the hospital smell caught in his nose. John had spent most of the last six months in places with similar chemical clean smells, and Sherlock had been the only bright spot.

 

When the doors opened, Mycroft led the way just behind the orderly. The woman from the pickup was at his side. John didn't know how she had come and gone or where she had been when they were on the plane, but she obviously wasn't a threat. Mycroft was far too relaxed for that. John might not know who she was, but at least he knew that Sherlock's brother was concerned for Sherlock's safety and well-being. Mycroft wouldn't bring a threat along, John was sure of it.

 

There was a set of chairs in the hall, and Mycroft and the brown haired woman - let's be honest with ourselves here, John, the werewolf - settled down in them. Sherlock strode confidently to the door and pushed it open. John followed because his mate wasn't going anywhere that he wasn't.

 

It turned out to be a very good thing that they were given a few hours to themselves.

 

The door barely latched before Sherlock had him against the wall. He was still hard from the plane ride, and John sank to his knees to rid his impatient mate of the impediment of clothing.

 

"John," Sherlock growled.

 

The uneasy feeling fled with the rush of desire John felt at hearing his name called like that. John spent a considerable time on his knees after that, first attending to Sherlock and then on the bed being thoroughly attended to in return.

 

When they collapsed onto the hospital-grade sheets, John shivered. Too familiar.

 

"London, yeah?" he asked softly.

 

Sherlock nuzzled his neck, nodding.

 

"We need really good sheets," John said, trying to catch his breath.

 

"Mm," Sherlock agreed, nipping his shoulder.

 

"I mean _obscenely_ good sheets," John clarified. "I don't care what it costs. I never want to be naked on hospital sheets again."

 

"That can be arranged," Sherlock rumbled, pulling John back against his chest with the arm around his waist.

 

"I couldn't get it up if I tried," John said, putting his arm over Sherlock's.

 

Sherlock began to reply, but there was a knock on the door that interrupted them. Mycroft stepped in, followed by an orderly with two sets of scrubs. "Sorry to interrupt," the orderly said.

 

Mycroft stood silently by the door, his eyes on the orderly as the woman draped the scrubs on the foot of the bed. She seemed a bit nervous, and John had to wonder if it was the two very naked men in the room or if it was Mycroft watching her. His money was on Mycroft.

 

"You'll need to, ah... clean up first, please." She gestured to the small bathroom connected to the room. "And then, we're ready to get started. Dr. Haughermann is prepping the surgical room."

 

Sherlock shifted. He loosened his hold on John enough that John could get up and go about cleaning up. Despite his wish to have the device out of his neck, John wanted to stay in bed with Sherlock more than he wanted to get clean.

 

"You will have to restrain yourself," Mycroft said softly to Sherlock. "Haughermann is-"

 

"I know who Haughermann is," Sherlock retorted.

 

"The doctor cannot un-mate the two of you," Mycroft said pointedly. Then he lifted his voice, obviously meaning John to hear as he went on, "It will take time for the connection between you to become less... volatile."

 

Sherlock snorted.

 

The uneasy feeling came back, and John had to wonder if it was something to do with how long it had been since he'd eaten. He generally had a strong stomach.

 

"You've only yourself to blame, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "You never paid attention when we tried to explain it to you, and you've done your best to eschew normal socialization. It's affecting you more strongly than it would otherwise, and that's affecting John."

 

There was no immediate response. John stopped splashing the water to listen for Sherlock's answer, but... there really was none. That didn't seem normal.

 

John stepped into the bathroom doorway to survey the scene. Sherlock was glaring at his brother, but there was a troubled look on his face, as though he were worried - something John couldn't pin down precisely because he hadn't seen it on Sherlock's face before - and Mycroft stood with a neutral expression on his face.

 

"For the record," John said, drawing both gazes towards him, "I'm fine. Aside being randy like a second former, that is."

 

There was a flicker of relief on Sherlock's face, and then he was up and out of the bed, stepping past John into the little bathroom. A moment later a towel fell across his shoulders.

 

"That is not precisely what I mean," Mycroft said.

 

Curious, at least, John stepped out of the bathroom, toweling himself off. Mycroft seemed to pay very little attention to his nudity, which had to be a werewolf thing, and John was grateful for it.

 

"Being mated to a werewolf is serious for a human, we-"

 

"Mate for life," John said, tossing the towel onto the bed. Mycroft looked surprised. "Or did you mean that you lot are possessive? Stronger than I am? Faster than I am?"

 

"I see my brother has informed you of some of the pitfalls of being joined with one of us."

 

There was a snort from the bathroom.

 

"He gave me a choice, if that's what you mean."

 

Mycroft remained silent. Generally, he had seemed respectful of John, though somehow concerned about what had happened. More than that, Myrcoft had been the agent of their escape, and for that John was disinclined to think ill of him. Disinclined wasn't decided, though. Something about the quality of Mycroft's silence indicated judgment of John's statement.

 

"Did you think he didn't actually tell me what was going on?" John asked, all at once feeling annoyed. "Or were you somehow hoping that this was some sort of Stockholm-syndrome derivative? Do you think I'm not actually his mate and you're just... what? Testing me to see if it's true?"

 

The room was very silent, and John supposed it ought to be intimidating, on some level, but all he felt was annoyed. The scientists had tried to use them being mated to extract information from Sherlock, John had assumed the wolves would just accept it, but obviously he'd been wrong there.

 

"Not as such," Mycroft replied.

 

"That's not what you mean."

 

"You misunderstand my apprehension of the situation, Captain Watson," Mycroft said.

 

"Then explain it," John said, yanking the scrubs on. "I'm his mate, and more than that, _he's mine._ You can't change it, and if anybody could, I wouldn't _let_ them."

 

"Precisely," Mycroft replied.

 

John ground his teeth together, feeling the beginning of a headache he was only used to getting with particularly unreasonable COs. "Precisely _what?"_

 

"My brother is not well schooled in the habits of mated pairs, or the sensation of being mated. So I am fully aware that Sherlock will have explained to you what he recalled, perhaps what he inferred or remembered, but it will not be the entire experience of it. There are lesser pitfalls than our jealous, possessive nature, Captain Watson. And greater ones."

 

The entire speech struck John as particularly condescending. As though in response to something John said, Mycroft rose to his full height. John mirrored the movement. Mycroft opened his mouth--

 

Sherlock's damp hands curled around John's shoulders, and he was tugged gently back against Sherlock's chest. A soft hushing noise against his ear made John turn his head, breaking Mycroft's gaze, and Sherlock captured his lips.

 

"Interesting," Mycroft said. John heard it distantly, and then the door opened and closed and the older werewolf was gone.

 

"What was that?" John asked Sherlock once his lips were free of the kiss.

 

"My brother is fairly... protective," Sherlock said, squeezing his shoulders before stepping over to the other set of scrubs to pull them on. "It's a terrible habit of his."

 

"And for this he decided to- to what? Rile me up? Because pissing me off is a good way to figure out if I'm going to... to what? To hurt you?"

 

The scrubs had a long distance to travel to make it up Sherlock's legs so they could be fastened at his waist, and John resolutely ignored the sight of it. "Being part of a werewolf pack is not like having human in-laws," Sherlock said, reaching for the open-backed gown that had been provided for them. "All he knows about you is that you'd survived something against all odds, twice. You're a remarkable exception to normal rules, but he's still... a strong voice in the pack."

 

"You never said a word about-"

 

"Did you really think I would betray them to those scientists?" Sherlock snapped.

 

"No," John replied, sighing as he pulled his own gown on. He was reminded by the entire conversation that he didn't really _know_ Sherlock, despite being his mate.

 

"John..."

 

"Leave it," John replied, shaking his head. "Let's just go get this shit cut out of our necks."

 

 

*


	5. Chapter 5

 

~*~

 

 

Doctor E. L. Haughermann, the E standing for Euclidia and the L for _look-it’s-none-of-your-business_ , was a distinguished looking woman who had very steady hands, dark brown hair peppered with gray, and a serious look on her face as soon as the two of them entered the alcove just before the operating room. Sherlock seemed annoyed by her, but he had been annoyed by almost everything they had met since leaving Siberia, moreso since they had touched down in Dresden, and had been visibly radiating displeasure since John had brushed him aside once they got their scrubs on.

 

It didn’t take a genius to see it. John wasn't too surprised.

 

Haughermann was dressed in scrubs for the surgery, but not scrubbed in yet, taking the time to greet the pair of them. She gave Sherlock, in particular, a serious look. "Will you be able to control yourself for this?"

 

John was confused by that question, but Sherlock gritted out an affirmative answer.

 

"Doctor Watson," Haughermann said, calling his attention back. She held out a hand that John took. When they shook hands, John was pleased at the strength in her grip. "I'm sorry for the confusion. I understand that you likewise aren't entirely pleased with the proceedings."

 

"I'd be happier to have the tracker out of my neck than not," John admitted. "It's nothing personal."

 

"One surgeon to another," Haughermann said, "I don't blame you. I can hardly abide another doctor working on me either."

 

It was impossible not to relax as she admitted it. John smiled and shook her hand when she offered it.

 

"The circumstances are a bit unusual, though," she admitted, glancing over at Sherlock. "We'll begin with Mister Holmes. The anesthetic is trickier, and his implant was placed longer ago than yours."

 

John nodded, a little curious about why he was getting such a lengthy explanation on this, even if the information was a bit of a comfort.

 

"I'm hoping I won't need to caution you to control yourself," she said. "I've had some small trouble with mated ones before. The scent of blood can cause a bit of a frenzy. I'm hoping you will be reasonable during this procedure." She lifted a brow.

 

"I... I think I'll be fine," John said.

 

"If you feel otherwise, let me know, and we can sedate you," Haughermann said. She cast a glance at both of them before introducing the other scrubbed in figures in the room. "Bjorn will handle the sedation, Katya is my assistant."

 

Bjorn, John thought, could probably sedate an elephant  without  drugs. The man was pale as snow, with blond hair and brown eyes, and looked like the back end of a lorry. Katya was smaller, and there was something familiar about her that John couldn't quite place. Once the introductions were concluded, short as they were, Katya held open the door to the operating room, and ushered Sherlock and John inside.

 

There were two operating tables of a completely unremarkable sort. Like any other hospital they were covered in sterile linens. The only difference was that John wasn’t used to seeing two tables in an operating room. “If you gentlemen will each pick a table,” Katya said. 

 

John nodded, but couldn’t make himself move forward. Something about the room - the quality of the buzzing fluorescent lights, or the drab hospital colors maybe - reminded him of being strapped to the chair in Siberia. It hadn’t gotten to him at the time, but now he could recall that room in excruciatingly precise detail.

 

“John,” Sherlock said. 

 

Beside John, Sherlock stood just as still as he did, but while John had felt like his whole body was seized, Sherlock’s eyes had darted around the room, cataloging all the differences from the one he remembered.

 

“There are no chairs,” Sherlock said. John turned his eyes to his mate, and Sherlock’s gaze was steady.

 

The only answer John gave Sherlock was a grunt. It was utterly unbelievable to think he would be worried about chairs, but the words had been enough to help. They had been perfect, in fact. Like a beacon through fog his mate’s voice cut through the panic that had gripped him.

 

Sherlock cast one longing look at John before crossing the room and sitting on one of the two operating tables.

 

John took a seat on the empty operating table as Doctor Haughermann entered the room, properly scrubbed in for the procedure. Bjorn followed her in, moving to a tray on the far side of Sherlock’s table while Katya coaxed Sherlock to lay down on his stomach.

 

The three scrub-clad bodies surrounded Sherlock, and for a moment John lost sight of him. Part of John wanted to close his eyes, but then he’d lose all sight of Sherlock, and that very much felt like a bad idea. Thankfully Katya stepped to one side, allowing John to see more of him. Bjorn moved in with wicked looking needle to apply the localized anesthetic, and John could almost feel the pinch of it himself. From the size of the dosage, it seemed they would be keeping Sherlock awake for the duration of the surgery. The three of them moved again, and Sherlock was partly obscured once more.

 

John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock through the gap between the doctors. His mate lay on the table placidly, without the hunch or shiver that would denote anxiety with what was being done.

 

When the first cut was made, John felt a rush of anger that was entirely foreign. He knew what was going on, that the surgery was necessary, but the scent of Sherlock's blood - and how he could smell it from six feet away when it was just blood and there ought to be no way on earth for him to know it was specifically  Sherlock's blood was an unaskable question - was like a jolt that coursed through him.

 

John gripped the edge of the table he was seated on, and sucked in a breath. Sherlock flexed his fingers docilely at his sides, and that bit of calm movement provided John a glimmer of sanity. He clung to the fact that Sherlock was fine as though he were actually holding something, and the rage that threatened subsided.

 

Doctor Haughermann moved confidently, making deft cuts with sure movements of her hands. Katya reached in when she requested it, and they went through the delicate procedure of removing an object placed so near the spinal column. John tried not to hold his breath. It felt like it took forever for the procedure to be completed, but John knew it couldn't be too long. Sherlock lay flat, letting them stitch up the wound without even a wince though the topical had to have worn off. When asked he flexed fingers and toes more vigorously and shifted his head slightly. There was no obvious spinal damage, and Bjorn stepped over to offer him another shot, but Sherlock just said a soft, "No."

 

Then it was John's turn. Katya coaxed him to let go of the table and to stretch out on the surface. The hospital sheets again made John want to squirm, but he remembered Sherlock's agreement that they would have better at the other end of this, and he settled down. There was a sharp stab as the topical applied, and fingers touched the back of his neck.

 

"How long ago was this implanted?" Haughermann asked, prodding the healing skin on the back of his neck with careful fingers.

 

"A month?" John said. He wished he could see Sherlock. He wanted to see the calm look was on his mate's face.

 

Some quiet conversation happened, and then Bjorn was back with a stronger sedative. John was mildly concerned that it was necessary, but once the gas was taking affect he couldn't make his body respond. There was nothing to do, and he felt a familiar panic threaten him.

 

"I'm here, John," Sherlock said, velvety voice cutting through the rustling of the doctors' scrubs and the noise of metal being picked through. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did. The sound of Sherlock's voice was soothing, and he must have known it, because he continued on with, "You're alright. I'm here."

 

John didn't feel the scalpel, but it didn't matter. He hear Sherlock, even if he couldn’t see him, and the only wince that came was when the first cut scented the air with his blood. John wondered if it was worse for Sherlock, like that first separation. Did Sherlock feel the rage even worse than he had?

 

If he did, it didn't disturb his voice. He kept murmuring things. Not all of them meant anything, facts about scalpels and the duration of the procedure and any number of nonsensical utterances, but it was Sherlock's voice that was getting through the drugs, and John was lulled by it.

 

So lulled that he fell asleep again before the stitches.

 

He woke, what must have been hours later, to a different set of hospital sheets. Sherlock was tight against his back and they were curled together on the bed.

 

Mycroft sat in front of the window, lips pressed together in every indication of very-human concern. The shift in the usually placid mask was stark in contrast.

 

"That bad?" John asked. He felt sore and heavy, and a bit dried out. "I thought they had me pretty still. I can still feel-"

 

Mycroft cut him off with, "There is risk of infection."

 

"That's what they get for pulling me off my antibiotics to ship me to  Russia ," John sighed, closing his eyes and shifting only to get Sherlock's nose in the hair at the back of his head.

 

"That's what  we get," Mycroft corrected.

 

John blinked his eyes back open, and found that Mycroft was leaning forward with both hands steepled underneath his chin as he watched John. Once John’s eyes were on him, he said, "Despite my rather lupine challenge earlier, Captain Watson, I-"

 

"John."

 

Mycroft paused.

 

"I'm not exactly in the military anymore. They were in the process of arranging my discharge papers when I got black-bagged out of the hospital. Somehow I think you already knew that."

 

"Your discharge is incomplete, at present."

 

"I'm your brother's mate," John countered. "You may as well start calling me John."

 

A single nod answered that. "John, then. I should not like you to think that I have anything less than a vested interest in your safety. My brother's well-being depends on it, and you are not an unwelcome addition to the family. Mummy will be overjoyed to meet you, once you are well enough to do so."

 

"I take it I'm not well enough now?" John asked.

 

"Doctor Haughermann has indicated that you should be watched carefully for post-operatory infection. I had intended to return you both to England as soon as possible. Dresden is a large enough city to go unnoticed for a certain period of time, but I should rather not linger here indefinitely."

 

"What are they worried about?"

 

"Staph, I believe."

 

"Pull the other one," John replied. Mycroft frowned. "In the designer cage they had Sherlock in, once I became important for more than an answer I wouldn't give them, don't you think they finished off anything I might have had?"

 

"The skin around the insertion point was-"

 

"You have noticed that Sherlock has a thing for my neck, haven't you?" John huffed. "We'll wait twenty-four hours, and if nothing's shown up then, we'll go to London."

 

Mycroft frowned.

 

John narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious. "Unless you have some other reason for delaying our return?"

 

"I suppose time will tell, then."

 

With that, Mycroft left them.

 

"Your brother is a high-handed priss," John huffed.

 

Sherlock chuckled, nosing at the edge of his bandage, and tightened his arms around John, not even bothering to wake all the way up.

 

After twenty-four hours with no worse affects than Sherlock complaining of the taste of adhesive on John's neck, Mycroft relented and they took another car to another plane and the other plane - a much nicer one than before, making John wonder if the one from before was borrowed from the Russian wolves - took them back to England.

 

Not to London.

 

To Wiltshire.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd that's the end of this story. Suffice it to say that all comments, kudos, and questions are welcomed and appreciated. Thank you to everyone for reading. 
> 
> I am a horrible person for the cliffhanger, I know, but this is not the end of the entire story.


End file.
